


for the sake of prisoners and the flight of birds

by everybodylies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Magical Realism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, sam talks to birds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam returns from his second tour in not too good of a shape. He’s down a wingman, working for his cousin, and ignoring his friends. On top of all that, he’s started talking to a bird…</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the sake of prisoners and the flight of birds

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what this is, it started out as a nice little Sam talks to birds! story but then it quickly descended into more than 10,000 words of angst-filled madness. anyway sam might seem a little ooc in this story but keep in mind this is an au where he’s not a counselor and he just got back from overseas, so he’s not making great decisions. also my spanish is very rusty, please let me know if you find an error

  
_don’t leave my hyper heart alone on the water_  
_cover me in rag and bone sympathy_  
_cause i don’t want to get over you_

 

Sam’s always been good at taking things in stride. You kind of have to be if you’re a pararescue in the Air Force. People shooting at you? Move fast. Out of clean bandages? Improvise.

Lose your partner halfway through your second tour to an RPG above Basra? Go back to work the next day because the military doesn’t give out sick days for extreme grief, and train Riley’s replacement because someone needs to be using those $1.8 million wings whether you like it or not, Wilson, and don’t freak out, don’t freak out, keep it together until they finally send you back to DC—

Anyway. Sam can take things in stride, so when he realizes, two months after getting home, that a bird is talking to him, he doesn’t immediately go to a therapist to ask for psychiatric treatment. Instead, he talks back.

It all starts during his daily jog around the park. Sam jogs a lot these days. He doesn’t bring any music or water, just the clothes on his back and the sneakers on his feet. Around and around, he runs, at a pace that’s slightly too fast to be comfortable, his breaths coming ragged and sweat stinging his eyeballs. His left knee’s been aching lately; he buys a cheap brace from CVS and ices it after every jog. He’s not as young as he used to be, the pain says. Maybe he should take it down a notch.

Today, Sam runs four miles before he has to stop for a breather. He sits heavily on a nearby bench and leans back, watching the sky. It’s a nice morning. The sky is blue as hell, with a few thin wisps of clouds. Cirrus, to be exact. They’d made him and Riley learn all the types before they would let them try out the wings. Everything about air currents and trade winds, too.

“Hi!” chirps someone with a very high voice and a cheery disposition.

Sam looks around for the source. No one in sight. He turns to his left to look at his benchmate, who turns out to be an old white dude glaring at his newspaper. He doesn’t seem like the person who just emitted that high-pitched word, but Sam doesn’t assume things. Appearances can be deceiving.

“Hello…?” Sam says to the man.

The man slowly turns to Sam, gives him an unimpressed look, then stands up and walks away. Alright, then.

“No!” chirps the voice again. “Down here!”

Sam looks down. All he sees is a tiny little sparrow. It… seems to be staring up at him.

“Hi!” the sparrow says.

Sam leans forward slightly, putting his mouth closer to the ground. He pauses briefly to wonder what it means for his mental health that he’s doing this. “Are you—are you talking to me?” he whispers.

“Yep!” The little bird half-flaps, half-hops his way onto the bench. “My name’s Pip.”

It’s just a normal sparrow, one of those that you see in every park, almost four inches tall and feathers mostly brown with specks of black and white.

“Pip,” Sam repeats slowly. Okay, birds have names. Makes sense. Why wouldn’t they? How human-centered to think that other animals wouldn’t have names. And birds can talk. Makes sense. Wait, what? No, stop.

“Yep, that’s me,” Pip says.

“I’m Sam,” Sam says because it seems like the polite thing to do.

“Nice to meetcha,” Pip says. He hops onto Sam’s thigh, his pointy feet digging slightly into Sam’s skin.

“Nice… to meet you,” Sam says, then thinks, _Oh, what the hell._ “So, you from around here, Pip?” Sam asks.

“Actually,” squeaks the little bird, “I’m originally from Tuscaloosa.”

* * *

Every day, on the walk back home from the park, Sam passes by the VA. He hasn’t gone in yet, but today he actually considers it, considers stopping by and announcing to all the therapists, “I just had a conversation with a bird about Alabama,” and having them diagnose him with something, give him meds, put him into treatment.

(But the worst part is, that’s probably not even the most concerning thing about him. What he doesn’t consider is stopping by and telling someone that he didn’t come back from Iraq whole, that part of him, a big part, died with the men that he watched die, that, at the end, all he’d wanted to do was get out, get out, get out, and come back home, but now that he’s here, he feels like he’s suffocating.)

* * *

“Saaaam,” croons Natasha over the phone. “You. Me. Bucky. Pizza. _Bread rolls._ Vodka. Tonight. My place.”

Sam met Bucky on the first day of basic. Back then, he was a charming, fresh-faced kid with an easy smile and big dreams. After becoming fast friends, the two of them were separated, Bucky to elite sniper training, and Sam to pararescue training. Returning from his first tour, Sam decided to try and reconnect with Bucky, only to find that a grizzly, irritable one-armed man had replaced the kid he once knew. Bucky had been in the process of alienating a lot of his old friends, but he kept Sam around for some reason, probably because Sam was one of the few people who still treated Bucky the same way he ever had.

Natasha was Bucky’s friend first. He’d picked up the Russian ex-pat at some point before reconnecting with Sam, and now the two were joined at the hip. She was a mysterious, fearsome woman who took joy in Dostoyevsky and YouTube videos of cute dogs. She had kind of just shown up in Sam’s life, and she continued to show up in it until she’d become a permanent fixture.

“I don’t know, Nat,” Sam sighs. “I’m pretty beat. Maybe another time.”

Natasha breathes loudly out of her nose. Sam can imagine her pursing her lips, trying to decide between pressuring him and letting him be. “Okay,” she says, eventually, “but I’m holding you to that, Sam.”

“Nat!” Bucky shouts in the background. “Tell Wilson that if I don’t see him within the next three days, we’re not friends anymore!”

Sam smiles slightly.

“You heard that, right?” Natasha says. “Please, don’t let the bromance die out. But seriously, Sam. It’s not good for you to be cooped up in that tiny house of yours for so long.”

“I’m not cooped up in here,” Sam objects.

An unconvinced silence on Natasha’s end.

“Ok, fine, fine.” Natasha’s right. She usually is. But it’s easier, so much easier to just stay in, curl up, forget the world. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I promise I’ll see you guys soon. I promise.”

“Good,” Natasha says. “Love you, Sam.”

“I will only tell Sam I love him if I see him within the next three days,” Bucky shouts again. “Otherwise, he is dead to me.”

* * *

The next day, Sam runs further, ignoring his knee’s protests. He has no idea what he’s running from or where he’s running to; all he knows is that when he stops, life kind of… slows down, thickens unbearably. When he runs, he loses himself in the rhythm of his breaths and approaches something that could almost be called contentment.

Eventually, though, Sam loses steam. He drinks from a nearby water fountain and sits down on the grass. As he relaxes, a large Canadian Goose waddles on by.

Sam takes a moment to look around for any other people, then hisses at the bird, “Hey. Hey, I’m talking to you.”

The goose perks up and stares at Sam, but says nothing.

Sam forges ahead. “I know you can understand me. Yeah, that’s right. I know. I _know_.”

The goose just tilts its head at Sam, an action bordering on comprehension. Suddenly, Sam feels anger surge within him.

“Listen, you little—”

Sam shuts his mouth as a young couple jogs by.

The goose stares at Sam for a little longer, then honks at him and flies away. Sam puts his face into his hands. This is it. He’s hallucinating. He’s delusional. This is all fucked.

After a moment, a small bird flutters down next to him. Sam peeks out from behind his fingers.

“Pip, is that you?”

“Of course,” the bird huffs, ruffling his feathers a little indignantly. “You don’t recognize me?”

“To be honest,” Sam says, “you kinda look like every other sparrow out there.”

“What? What?” Pip makes some angry bird noises. Using his beak, he points to a white blob-shaped spot on his left wing. “See this? This mark that looks like a star?”

“Sure,” Sam lies, stifling a laugh.

“No other sparrow has that. I’m unique. My mama told me.”

Sam nods, smiling. There’s something about talking to this bird. Conversations light and easy and about nothing at all.

“Hey, Pip.”

“Yeah?”

“I tried talking to a goose earlier, but it wouldn’t talk back.”

“What?” Pip cries. “What’d you go and do that for?”

“Well, I can talk to you, can’t I?”

“Yeah, and am I a goose? No! You think geese can talk, those big dumb beasts? Hardly any brain.”

“Oh.”

“You know, I’m gettin’ real tired of people lumpin’ all birds together.”

“I hear that.”

“You want to talk to another bird? ‘Cause you hate me so much already? Make it a bird with brain. Not one of those meany blue jays or weirdo cardinals. A sparrow. Get it?”

“One with a bird brain, huh?” Sam asks, grinning.

“Exactly,” Pip says, the human turn of phrase going completely over his head.

* * *

There’s a tree right outside Sam’s bedroom window, and it’s shrieking. Well, specifically, the birds in the tree are shrieking (or singing, depending on your point of view). It’s five in the morning.

Sam groans and drags a pillow over his ears. Useless.

“Shut up!” Sam yells.

Blessed silence. Maybe it means something, but Sam falls back asleep too quickly to figure it out.

* * *

Sam finishes nailing in the support beam before putting down his tools and heading over to the shade for his water bottle. He wipes his forehead with his shirt and downs several large gulps of water. After a minute, Sam’s giant of a cousin, Romeo, wanders over, grabbing his own water bottle.

Romeo shakes Sam’s shoulder with a sweaty hand. “Sammy-boy. Hot as balls today, huh?”

“I’ve seen worse, Cuz,” Sam shrugs.

Romeo laughs heartily, shakes Sam’s shoulder some more. “Oh, Mr. Army Medic thinks he’s so tough ‘cause he was in Iraq. Okay, then, when I collapse from heat stroke, you gotta take care of me, alright?”

“Nah, I’d rather let you get taken to the hospital and slapped with a $2,500 bill.”

Romeo grins, then turns serious. “Listen,” he says, “you apply for any jobs yet?”

“Um,” Sam bites his lip, feeling awkward. “Uh, no, haven’t gotten the chance. Look, if you need to—”

“No, no, no,” Romeo says quickly. “It’s not like that. Cuz, you could work for me the rest of your life, if you wanted. You’re actually not a half bad worker. I’m just wondering for _you_. I know you don’t wanna be working construction forever.”

Sam is quiet for a moment. It’s true, he’s not gonna want to have a career in construction. But he doesn’t know what he does want a career in. He has no idea. There are a lot of things he wants, but none of them are about a career, and all of them are physically impossible.

Sam sighs and puts on a smile. “Don’t lie, I know you just can’t wait to get rid of your freeloading cousin—”

Romeo envelops him in a sweaty, sweaty bear hug. “Not true! Not true!”

* * *

“Who is _that_.”

There’s some sort of Greek god jogging through the park right now, pecs threatening to burst through a skin-tight Under Armour shirt. His blond hair has been neatly cropped, and he’s running at a breakneck pace, passing every person in his path.

“That’s gotta be, what, a six minute mile? _Five?_ ” Sam continues.

“Morning, Mr. Franzen!” the man calls to the hot dog vendor by the side of the road. The vendor waves back cheerily. “Morning, Ms. Turner! Oh, can I help you with that?” The man pauses to pick up the old lady’s spilled groceries.

Sam had taken an earlier jog today, and perhaps that’s why he’d never seen this man before. Because he thinks he’d have noticed a smoking hot dude lapping him over and over, only stopping to dispense goodness.

“Hm?” Pip looks up from where he’d been pecking at ants on the ground. “Oh, that’s Steve.”

Of course, the guy knows everyone in the neighborhood. Of course, he stops to help little old ladies. Of course, even the fucking birds know his name. He’s a goddamn Disney prince.

“Nice guy. Feeds us birds even though the sign says not to.” Pip gently pecks at Sam’s foot. “You should talk to him. He’s real nice.”

In the distance, Steve starts running again and quickly nears Sam’s bench. Sam is suddenly aware of all the sweat soaking through his clothes, and he tries to adjust his sitting position to one that looks very casual, but he’s pretty sure he actually just made things worse.

“What? No, no,” Sam tells Pip. “No way. No can do.”

“Why not? Trust me, you’ll like him,” Pip says, then takes flight.

“No, Pip, what are you doing, no, no, no—”

Sam can only watch, as Pip rises to moderate height, positions himself, and then takes a perfectly aimed shit into the Steve’s right eyeball. _Well,_ thinks Sam with the calmness of one who is watching disaster happen and cannot do anything to prevent it, _at least this proves I’m not hallucinating._

Steve slaps a hand to his eye and comes to a stop right in front of Sam. Pip’s timing had actually been perfect or horrible, depending on your point of view. Sam looks around awkwardly, but the fact that Steve is literally _right there_ means that Sam kind of has to do something or else he’s an asshole.

“Hey, man, you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, both eyes squeezed shut. “I think something just flew into my eye.”

Sam pauses, considers whether to tell Steve it was bird shit. Decides against it.

“You should probably wash it out,” Sam says. “There’s a water fountain over there. Here, I’ll lead you over.”

Sam supervises as Steve splashes water over his eye for a few minutes. Eventually, Steve opens his eyes, blinks a few times, then straightens up and faces Sam. One of his eyes is bloodshot.

“Hi— _oh._ ” Steve blinks at Sam a couple more times, then sticks his hand out and gives Sam a brilliant smile. “Hi. Um, Steve Rogers. Thanks, you know. For all your help.”

Sam swallows and shakes the man’s hand. Damn, that’s a strong grip. “Sam Wilson. Don’t mention it.”

Steve sighs and puts his hands on his hips. “Hey, do you think I should get this checked out at the hospital?”

“Nah, you’ll be fine,” Sam says, straightening up a little. Entering his area of expertise has given him a boost of confidence. “Trust me, I was a pararescue with the Air Force.”

“No kidding!” Steve exclaims, and Sam just stares. He can’t remember the last time he’d heard someone under the age of forty use that phrase. It’s oddly endearing. “I did three tours in Afghanistan with the Navy Seals.”

“Of course, he’s a fucking Navy Seal,” Sam mutters to himself.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You just get back?” Steve asks.

“Yeah, about two months ago from my second tour.” Sam snorts, runs a hand over the back of his head. “That obvious, huh?”

“It gets easier,” Steve says, ignoring the question. “You used to your bed yet?”

“Nope. Like I’m sleeping on a bowl of damn jello.”

Steve laughs, a warm, hearty sound. “I honestly haven’t heard that one yet. Did you try putting a piece of plywood under your mattress?”

“That… actually sounds like a really good idea.”

Steve’s eyes brighten. “Hey, you know, there’s a hardware store just down the street. We should go buy one right now.”

 _We should,_ Sam thinks, but what he actually says is, “I don’t have my wallet with me.”

“I have mine,” Steve offers, as if the two are interchangeable.

“Steve—”

“Come on, it’s the least I can do since you saved my life and all.”

“I didn’t really do any—”

“Also—just vet to vet—we’ve all been there, Sam,” Steve says. Sam has never seen a more earnest face in his life. “Please let me help. And you can pass on the favor when you get a chance.”

Sam and the rest of his family had never been big on accepting charity, but the way Steve phrased it made it hardly seem like that, and in any case, Steve’s big, soulful eyes are slowly chipping away at Sam’s resolve. _The asshole’s probably going to insist on carrying it all the way to my house, too,_ Sam thinks.

* * *

Bucky and Natasha are so happy to get Sam out of the house and into a bar that, after being seated at a booth, they just stare at him and smile for the two minutes that Sam reads the drink menu.

“Uh, guys? You’re really creeping me out.”

Bucky just pats Sam’s hand with his and continues smiling. “How are you, Sam? How’s life?”

 _I’m still working for my cousin, I feel like I’m about an inch away from falling apart, and I’m talking to animals,_ Sam doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “I met a hot dude in the park today.”

“OoOOooh,” Natasha says obnoxiously. “How?”

“A bird shit in his eye, and I had to help him clean it out.”

“Well, that’s a meet cute if I ever heard one,” Bucky comments. “What’s his name?”

Sam hesitates. Bucky and Natasha are probably going to Facebook-stalk or real-stalk the poor guy. “Steve Rogers,” he says eventually.

“Oh, you met Steve?” Bucky says. “I knew you two would hit it off.”

“You know him?” Sam asks, a bit surprised.

“Oh, yeah,” Bucky replies. “I see him around at the VA a lot. We’re pals.” He gives Sam a pointed look. “You know, you woulda met him a lot earlier if you ever went there, Sam.”

Sam ignores him. “I’m not sure if he’s into me, though. He was really nice, but I think he’s just nice to everyone.”

“Well, what else did you two do, other than clean crap out of the guy’s eye?” Bucky asks.

Shrugging, Sam replies, “We talked for a bit, and then I told him about my trouble sleeping, so he took me to the hardware store to buy some plywood for my mattress.”

Natasha puts her hand over her mouth to stop from spitting out her drink. “ _What?_ He bought you _wood?_ ” She can barely hold in her giggles, and her eyes are bulging out of her head. “Oh, he’s interested. Sam, listen to me: he wants the D.”

“But you haven’t met the guy, Nat,” Sam objects. “He’s nice to everyone. He’d do the same for anyone else. Right, Bucky? Back me up here.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Might be true.” He downs the rest of his beer and slaps the table. “Tell you what, Sam. Next time I see him, I’ll ask him to buy me some wood. And then I’ll wink at him. Like this.” Bucky winks, and Sam would be lying if he said it wasn’t hot as hell. “And if he says no, then we know he wants your D specifically.”

“Please don’t,” Sam says.

* * *

Sam lies down on his bed and closes his eyes. For once, he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning in his mattress. He makes a mental note to call Steve and thank him profusely and maybe ask him out to lunch if he can be suave enough to pull it off.

Then, Sam opens his eyes and all he sees is blue sky. The wind whistles in his ears.

A shout comes from above. “Catch me if you can, asshole!” Sam looks up. Riley. He’s doing loop-de-loops around clouds.

Sometimes there were days like this. Sometimes the base was quiet, and the techs would tweak with the wings and hand them over to Sam and Riley for test runs. Sam remembers these days the best.

“Good thing you got a head start,” Sam shouts back. “You’ll need it!” Riley’s laugh in response is sweet and infectious.

The weather changes in a blink. There were days like this, too. Days when, one minute they’d be heading off on a standard rescue op without a cloud in the sky, and the next, the air is charged and the sun has disappeared behind an ominous greyness.

Tossed by the wind and battered by raindrops, Sam loses sight of his partner. “Riley! Riley!” His shouts get more frantic as they go on. Sam flies above, below, through the storm, but he can’t find Riley anywhere. Below him, a flash of lightning strikes the ground and blinds Sam momentarily. “Riley!”

“Sam!” He turns to see a small sparrow, impossibly flying by his side.

“Pip?”

“You’re dreaming!” Pip shouts. “This is all just a bad dream!”

“I know!” Sam shouts back.

“Just wake up, Sam! Wake up.”

“I don’t…” Sam says, “I don’t want to!”

His ears catch the sound of faint rumbling. Not thunder but… RPGs. Sam feels like his heart is about to beat its way out of his chest. “Riley!” he screams. He’s gonna find him, he’s gonna find—Sam dodges a rocket, then rises above the cloud cover long enough to catch a glimpse of a pair of wings in the distance—a rocket, too, catching up—“Riley!” Sam screams—

Sam’s eyes open against his will. He’s in bed, and his face is wet. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s not rain.

* * *

The park is just oozing with couples today, and Sam can barely take it. Two old white guys sit side by side on a bench, tossing crumbs at a gaggle of geese. A newly engaged couple jogs together, wearing matching outfits and somehow managing to share earbuds while they’re at it. A pair of teenage girls sit by the side of the pond, dipping their bare feet in the water and giggling.

Sam closes his eyes. He tries to ground himself, focus on the warm sun and the fresh breeze.

“Pip,” he says. “Have you ever lost someone?”

Pip flaps his way over to the bench armrest. “Not really,” he says. He scratches his face with his foot. “I haven’t seen my mama since I left the nest, but that’s business as usual for sparrows. I’m over it. Mostly. Pretty much.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever—”

“Oh, who am I kidding? I miss my mama,” the bird wails. “I haven’t seen her in so long. No one sits on me to keep me warm anymore. No one chews worm bits for me in advance anymore. I miss my mama.”

Sam’s eyes widen at this unforeseen turn of events. He has to stroke Pip’s feathers for five whole minutes before he calms down.

* * *

Sam’s walking down a side street, past a few of those quaint little shops, when he come across an art gallery. The sign outside it reads, “Come in and see the work of local artist, Steven Rogers.”

He finds Steve in the back, wearing khakis and an old man button down. “You didn’t tell me you were an artist,” Sam exclaims, delighted.

Steve only shrugs. Now that Sam comes to think about it, Steve hadn’t really talked much about himself at all on the walk to the hardware store. Just asked Sam about how he was doing.

“Damn,” Sam says as he peers at each piece of artwork. “Daaaamn.”

“You really like ‘em,” Steve says softly, sheepish and a little surprised.

Mostly drawings, a few paintings. The work is simple and realistic, everyday scenes from everyday life. A black woman sitting by a fountain and feeding the fish, her bouncy afro sketched out in loving detail. A young, unamused teenager letting her father take a turn on her skateboard. A fully packed subway car, passengers squeezed in between each other, some interacting, some not.

“‘Course I do,” Sam says. “I mean, I don’t know how much my opinion really counts since I couldn’t tell a Monet from a Van Gogh, but yeah. I like it.”

“It counts, Sam.”

Steve follows Sam around the gallery as he looks at everything.

“You always been an artist?” Sam asks.

“Ever since I was little,” Steve says. “My mom used to leave me with crayons and paper for hours. I’d never get bored.” He frowns as he considers how that sounds. “Uh—I mean, she didn’t neglect me, um, I wanted to draw, and she was always there supervising—”

“I understand, don’t worry,” Sam says, grinning. A flustered Steve Rogers is quite an enjoyable sight.

“After high school, I really wanted to go to art school,” Steve continues. “But we didn’t have the money, and art isn’t the easiest place to find a career anyway.”

“You could go now,” Sam suggests.

“I should,” Steve agrees. “There’s so much more I want to learn. I’m head of security at the mall downtown, though. Keeps me pretty busy.”

Sam nods politely. “I see.”

“It’s the most horrible and boring job I’ve ever had,” Steve says, and Sam laughs. “Unfortunately, I can’t make a living off selling pieces of my heart and soul. Though, my friend Peggy’s been looking into getting me a security job at one of the Smithsonians. That would be much better.”

As Sam approaches the back of the gallery, his gaze focuses in on one piece. It’s a small sketch with just bare pencil and no coloring other than different shades of gray. More abstract than the others, the lines are broad and sweeping. It’s dusk (or dawn, it’s unclear) and a man sits in front of a lake, his head bent downwards, shadowed. His face is angular, accentuated by his goatee, and his eyes are pained.

The tag reads $750. Overpriced; no one will buy it. But maybe that’s the point.

“That’s Tony,” Steve says, fond with a note of sadness. “We’d been friends ever since freshman year of high school. He’d always been a… troubled kid. Family problems. He died when I was twenty-three. Drunk driving.” Steve pauses. Sam looks over to see Steve still staring at the artwork. “I was overseas at the time,” he says quietly.

Sam imagines Steve drawing this piece, hand clenched around his pencil, resisting the urge to crumple up the paper and throw it in the trash. And it’s then that Sam truly realizes how lonely existence is, how fucking impossible it is to keep the people you love and how easy it is for them to just be snatched away.

“He was the first person I came out to,” Steve says, more upbeat now, with an expression of warm nostalgia. Sam wonders when he’ll get to that point, when he’ll be able to remember the good times and not feel like falling apart.

“How’d he react?”

“He…” Steve shakes his head and chuckles. “He was offended, actually. Said, ‘You’re gay, and you’ve never hit on me?’ And that pretty much tells you everything you need to know about Tony Stark.” Steve smiles. “He was good about it, though. Really. He was supportive.”

Sam knows its his turn to share now. Steve opened up, and now Sam. Steve lost someone, so did Sam. That’s how it works. Only, the words are turning to sludge in his mouth, and the silence stretches on.

But Steve understands, or at least it seems like he does. The silence is companionable instead of awkward, and Steve reaches out to put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam stands there for a while, staring at the sketch. For a fleeting moment, he actually considers buying it, wonders how much money is in his savings account, wonders where he’d have the wall space. For another fleeting moment, he considers drawing his own, one of Riley with his wings spread wide, face turned toward the sun. But, already, he knows that he would press the pencil tip down with too much force and rip the paper, that the graphite would smear, that the lines would come out clunky and wrong.

“I’m hungry,” Sam says eventually.

“I know a great Indian place down the street,” Steve offers.

* * *

Sam almost makes it inside the VA. He walks toward the building, down the pathway. The sliding doors open, and he can see into the lobby, a nice little area with upholstered chairs and fierce air conditioning. He takes a step closer. Another one. And—

He knows, in the back of his mind, that this is what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to come back from war with some amount of psychological trauma, and you’re supposed to go to the VA and get treatment. He knows this, he knows this, and yet.

He’s okay, isn’t he? He’s living. Functioning. He’s better off than Bucky had been after he came back. And talking to somebody about it just about sounds like the worst thing ever.

A nurse comes outside for a smoke break. She looks at Sam from over by the ashtray. “Do you need help with something?” she asks pleasantly, pulling out a cigarette.

“Uh, no,” Sam says, turning around.

* * *

Sam tosses and turns all night. The plywood has stopped working, and Sam is starting to think that maybe the bed wasn’t the main problem in the first place. He goes for an earlier jog, runs seven miles before his knee gives out. About a minute after he sits down on his usual bench, Pip wanders over dutifully and says good morning.

“Morning,” Sam replies tiredly.

“You’re here early,” Pip notices. “Wanted to catch Steve?”

He’d actually forgotten about that. Crap, he’s not ready. He looks across the pond to spot Steve sprinting at his usual pace, giving Sam about ten minutes before he passes by. Sam begins to mentally prepare himself.

“No, I just felt like running earlier,” he tells Pip.

Pip nudges at Sam’s thigh with his beak. “But you like him right? I told you you’d like him.”

“He’s a pretty cool dude,” Sam admits.

Pip preens his feathers proudly. “Matchmaking is one of my many talents. Last month, I noticed these two mockingbirds making eyes at each other, so I had a talk with each of them. And what do you know, two weeks later, Patty pops out an egg.”

“Alright, Pip,” Sam says, holding up his hands. “Me and Steve haven’t exactly gotten to the egg laying part of our relationship yet.”

“You will,” the little bird says sagely. “One day.”

* * *

“Saaaam!” Bucky hollers as he lets himself in to Sam’s house. Sam mutes the Nationals game and turns around from his spot on the couch to see Bucky walk in with a six pack under his arm.

“I have beer, you know,” Sam says.

“Yeah, but you got shitty taste,” Bucky counters. He tosses a bottle, and Sam catches it and reads the label. Some local microbrew. He tries to remember when exactly Bucky turned into a hipster and fails.

“So, you let yourself into my house, you trash-talk my alcohol—”

“But ya love me,” Bucky finishes, cracking open his beer with his prosthetic thumb, something that the doctors had told him specifically not to do.

Sam leans back, and they watch the playoffs for a few minutes, until Bucky says conversationally, “I talked to Steve today.”

“Yeah?” Sam says, trying not to sound too eager.

“I asked him to buy me some wood. And then I winked at him.”

Sam sighs, lets his head fall backwards onto the couch pillows. “I thought you were joking about that,” he moans.

Bucky just flashes Sam a shit-eating grin.

“And what did he say?” Sam asks, his need to know overcoming his exasperation.

“He looked really confused and said, ‘Aren’t you dating Natasha?’”

 _Buddy, they’re my best friends and even I don’t know the answer to that question._ Sam asks, “Then, what did you say?”

“Nothing. I just winked again.”

Sam puts his face into his hands. Though, it’s hard to get annoyed with Bucky these days. Sam remembers when Bucky had just come home from war with eerily lifeless eyes. Sam had to drag him to his doctor’s appointments and sit with him as the doctors droned on and on about nerve endings and physical therapy. He’d forced Bucky to eat something other than instant noodles, to open his bedroom shades and go outside every once in a while. Making Bucky smile had been hard work back then, and to see him so goofy and carefree now, almost like his old self, was like a breath of fresh air.

“Sam, he turned down an implied threesome with me and Natasha. I think he’s into you, man.”

“Or maybe he just realized how weird you are.”

“That’s possible, too. But he also asked me if you were single.”

Sam chokes down the beer in his mouth and sits forward. _“What?”_

“Ask him out,” Bucky chants, clapping with each word. “Ask him out. Ask him out. Ask him out.”

“I…” Sam shakes his head. “I don’t…”

“Come on, what’s stopping you?”

There’s a lot stopping Sam, but he starts off with this: “Well, for one, he’s way too perfect. Funny, hot, super nice, considerate. It’s intimidating. Can you imagine dating someone like that?”

Bucky shakes his head. “He’s not perfect, Sam. He hates talking about his feelings. He sits in group and never says anything. Ever. He’s got a horrible temper, gets in fights all the time.” Bucky pauses, frowns. “You know, basically, I guess what I’m saying is that it would probably suck to date him. You should date him.”

* * *

Sam has just about gotten ready for bed, when there’s a knock on his door. When Sam answers it, he has to rub his eyes to make sure he’s seeing things right.

Not only is it _Steve Rogers_ at his door, at 11 p.m. on a Thursday night, but he’s got a laceration on his chest that’s bleeding profusely and a young, bruised Latino man standing behind him on the stoop.

Steve gives Sam the most sheepish look and opens his mouth to say, “Sam, I’m real sorry about this—”

Sam sighs, but there’s affection in it. “Look, just come in,” he says, stepping aside.

In return, Steve flashes Sam a sweet, grateful smile that makes Sam’s heart flutter.

Once Sam has dug out his old first aid kit and seated his guests in the living room, Steve begins to explain.

“This is Tomás,” Steve says, gesturing to the man beside him. “He works at a Mexican restaurant across town. Some jerks were eating at the restaurant today and giving him a hard time. I stepped in, things got a little violent. Unfortunately, Tomás got dragged into the fight, too,” Steve turns to Tomás, “which I am incredibly sorry about, by the away.”

Tomás shakes his head. “Esos bastardos recibieron lo que merecieron. Yo estaba punto de empezar una lucha de todos modos. Y yo te dije: soy bueno. Tú estás el hombre que necesite ayuda médica.”

“Come on, this thing? It’s pretty much stopped bleeding by now,” Steve says, pointing to the cut on his chest that has certainly not stopped bleeding.

“Yeah… you need to put some more pressure on that,” Sam says. He leans forward and presses a bandage to the wound until Steve takes over, putting his hand over Sam’s for a moment. Steve looks up at him strangely.

“Tomás is undocumented,” Steve continues, after a moment, “so he can’t go to the hospital. I thought maybe you could look him over.”

Sam frowns. “Usually, I advise everyone to go to the hospital just to be safe. But under the circumstances, I think this should be fine.”

He starts by taking Tomás’s pulse, breathing rate and blood pressure. He palpates the other man’s scraped fingers and the bones in his face, then tells him to take his shirt off and presses down on each rib.

“No breaks,” he says, satisfied. “Does it hurt when I do this? How about now?”

“Tienes dolor allí?” Steve translates.

“No.”

“Did you lose consciousness at all?” Sam asks. He flashes a light into Tomás’s eyes and watches as the pupils constrict on both sides.

“Um,” Steve says, struggling, “el conocimiento, uh—Perdiste la consciencia en algún momento?”

Tomás shakes his head. “No.”

“You’re fine,” Sam says. “Ice that black eye, and let me know if anything gets worse, if you have trouble breathing or feel funny or anything like that. Anything at all.”

Steve translates everything to Tomás, who then looks at his watch and springs to his feet. “El tiempo! Necesito salir,” Tomás exclaims. He then shakes Sam’s hand. “Muchas gracias, muchas gracias,” he says, then turns to Steve and says, “Y tú dijiste la verdad. Él es muy guapo.” Tomás winks at Steve, nods at Sam, and then runs out, leaving Sam alone with Steve.

“Thank you, Sam,” Steve says with a tone of finality, standing up as if he’s leaving. “I owe you one. No, I owe you five. You’re amazing.”

“Whoa, whoa, man. Where ya goin’?” Sam laughs awkwardly.

“I wanna get out of your hair, Sam—”

“It’s just that,” Sam gestures to Steve’s chest, “you still got a lotta bleeding over there.”

Steve looks down. “Oh,” he says. “I guess forgot about that. The bleeding’s mostly stopped anyway.”

“It’s still gonna need stitches,” Sam replies, just staring. “Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

Steve frowns, and, with big eyes, he says, “Can’t you do it?”

“The ER docs will be better at it.”

“I don’t care about the scar,” Steve says. _I do,_ Sam thinks. “Please? I don’t like the hospital.”

Sam sighs. “Take off your shirt.” (He really never thought he’d ever say those words to Steve Rogers with such disappointment in his voice.)

Steve complies, and Sam pulls on a fresh pair of gloves and gets to work. His fingers tingle as he touches them to the skin around Steve’s wound. He works in silence for a minute, cleaning away the blood, then says, “So. You couldn’t have called the police first?”

“I know I should’ve,” Steve says, smiling grimly. “I’ve just never been good at sitting by and watching people suffer.”

“Bucky said you do this a lot.”

“Dammit, Bucky,” Steve mutters, and Sam chuckles.

Sam pokes the needle through Steve’s skin, and he doesn’t even flinch. “I grew up real small,” Steve says. His voice sounds far away. “I had pretty bad asthma, a weak heart, allergies, a bunch of fun stuff. During high school, I was 5’3, barely ninety pounds. I grew out of most of my health problems senior year, but before that I was pushed around a lot, bullied. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of that chip on my shoulder.”

Steve’s voice is lower now, and Sam realizes just how close they are. His breaths come shallower, but he determinedly keeps working.

“But in good news, it means I’m never going to stop looking out for the little guy.”

Sam ties off the thread, sticks a clean bandage over the closed wound. He looks up to see Steve staring back at him, and he swallows. Every section of his brain starts shouting right now, and he’s kind of short-circuiting.

“Um, come back in like three or four days, and I’ll take those stitches out,” he says.

“Okay,” Steve says.

* * *

“Why don’t you ever bring me food?” Pip demands one sunny morning, in lieu of a greeting.

“Uh, because the sign says ‘Don’t feed the birds’?” Sam replies slowly. He rolls his sleeves down and shivers as a breeze moves through. Summer had ended long before he’d noticed, and they’re well into fall now, red and orange leaves littering the ground.

“The sign? _The sign?_ ” Pip squawks. “Who cares about signs? You know, Steve feeds the birds all the time.”

“That’s because Steve is a delinquent,” Sam says matter-of-factly. “And I am not.”

“Look, the sign says ‘Don’t feed the birds.’ Birds. Plural. I am just one bird. You can’t feed the birds, but you can feed _the bird_. So basically, it’s not against the rules.”

“That… makes no sense,” Sam chuckles. “But fine. What do you want?”

“Well, there’s this really good bread at Whole Foods with cranberries and walnuts in—”

“Hell no. You want me to go to Whole Foods to buy you bread? Can’t I just get you Wonder Bread or something?”

“ _Wonder Bread?_ That’s stuff like eating styrofoam.” Pip stares at Sam. “I would know. I have eaten Wonder Bread and styrofoam. The experiences were very similar.”

Sam relents. “Fine. Tomorrow, I’ll go to Whole Foods and buy you your bread. Sound good?”

“Thank you, Sam!” Pip exclaims, nuzzling his head into Sam’s thigh. “You’re the best ever!”

The two of them fall into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the other inhabitants of the park plod along.

“You know, I used to be able to fly, too,” Sam tells Pip idly after a while, staring at the sky.

“Haha, very funny,” Pip responds, and Sam is surprised to hear such sarcasm coming out of the bird’s mouth.

“No, for real,” Sam insists. “I had metal wings.”

Pip flaps his wings and stares at them, baffled. “Metal? How’s that supposed work?”

“Jet fuel,” Sam says, “a lot of jet fuel. Also, something to do with aerodynamics.”

“Can’t imagine not being able to fly anymore,” Pip says, flapping his wings again. “Do ya miss it?”

“Every day,” Sam admits, but that’s not true isn’t it? Near the end, getting into the air had become just another chore, like brushing his teeth or waking up in the morning. Using the wings also meant turning to his side to make some sort of joke only to find his words drifting into empty air, and keeping a close eye on Mike, Riley’s young, hot-headed replacement who always had a bad habit of getting lost in the clouds. No, what Sam really misses is the way the world used to look from 5,000 feet up: warm and inviting and full of possibility.

Sam was young. But he was in the middle of a war zone, so eventually he wised up.

* * *

“No Bucky?” Sam asks Natasha, as they’re seated at a swanky restaurant downtown, a far cry from the usual bars the three of them frequent.

Natasha grimaces behind her menu. “He’s been pissing me off lately. I just wanted a girls night out.”

“I’m not a girl,” Sam says, then wonders why he felt the need to reiterate that.

“Yeah, but Maria and Pepper weren’t free.”

“Oh, Nat, you make me feel so loved,” Sam teases.

Natasha leans across the table to shove Sam lightly in the shoulder. “I do love you, jerk.”

Their waiter approaches. “Will the lovely couple be wanting a bottle of wine tonight?” he asks.

“Yes, we will,” Natasha says with a smile, always willing to play along with strangers’ assumptions. “The… Bordeaux, please.” She snaps the wine menu closed and hands it to the waiter, then turns her attention back to Sam.

“So. Samuel,” she says, eyes attentive. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going,” Sam says vaguely. “Found some job openings, yesterday.” _Haven’t applied yet, but that’s beside the point._

“That’s great. What kind of jobs?”

“Mostly paramedic stuff. Some office jobs.” _Not sure I wanna get another job where I have to watch people die, but that’s beside the point._

“Good, good.” Natasha smiles, then turns serious. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right, Sam?”

Sam’s mouth is dry. “‘Course, Nat.”

* * *

The outside temperature barely falls below forty-five, but Sam isn’t used to the cold. What he’s used to is sweating through layers and layers of protective gear, finding sand in every crevice of his body, melting into a puddle every time he has to go outside.

He still goes running though, chokes down the chilly air. Only, with the change in weather, he finds himself ignoring his surroundings and focusing more inwards, backwards.

_—the government had said Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, but Riley hadn’t asked, and Sam had told him anyway. They were wingmen, they were partners, they were best friends, and Sam couldn’t hide such a big part of his life from someone who was so important. “‘Course I’ll keep your secret,” Riley had whispered back, in the darkness. There was a goofy grin on his face. “Otherwise they’d send you home, and then what am I supposed to do?”—_

_—the dying man coughs, coughs, won’t stop coughing. Sam holds pressure on the wound with one hand and rips open another bandage with his teeth. “Hold on, man. I’m gonna get you out of here.” The man shakes his head. Tries to talk, only coughs. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a small photo of a little girl hugging a golden retriever. He hands it to Sam, then goes quiet—_

_—Sam touches down on both his feet this time, finally, and gives a little yelp of pleasure. “I swear, Riley, I was a bird in another life,” he says. Riley pulls off his helmet, shakes out his hair. “You and me both, dude,” he replies—_

Life ambles on, as it does.

* * *

Steve’s got tickets to a local concert, and he asks Sam. The artist is some random indie band that Sam’s never heard of, and he knows that Steve knows that Bucky would probably enjoy the concert a lot more than Sam would, so Sam knows it’s getting real.

They’re in line outside the venue, and Steve’s giving some long lecture about the brutalist architecture of the neighborhood, which Sam really does try to pay attention to, _really_. But instead, he’s doing that thing he’s been doing a lot lately, which is getting lost in his own head.

Birds in the sky turn into drones, cars on the street turn into humvees. And he remembers when they’d told him he was going home, and it was somehow the best thing yet the worst thing. Because in the desert, in the sky, was where he could still feel Riley’s presence, but at the same time, he really could not spend another day in the land of bombs and death and dying—

“Sam, are you okay?” Steve asks, sounding distressed. He gives Sam a concerned look as he steps closer. “You’re shaking.”

Sam looks down at his hands. They are shaking, and he clenches them into fists to make them stop. “I, uh, I have to go.” He turns, and with absolutely no goodbye at all, starts walking away at a quick pace.

“Wait, Sam—”

Sam knows exactly what this is. It’s a fantastic little medley of extreme grief and untreated PTSD with a smattering of survivor’s guilt. But knowing why you’re fucked doesn’t make you any less fucked, and Sam can’t find it in himself to turn around.

“Sam!”

He starts running.

* * *

Not long after Sam gets home, he hears the familiar sound of Bucky letting himself in and sighs.

“Sam?” Bucky calls, shutting the door behind him. “Steve called. He was worried about you.” He manages to find Sam in the kitchen, leaning over the counter, a beer in his hand. “There you are.”

“I’m fine,” Sam says decisively.

Bucky takes one look at Sam, and his face falls. He turns away for a moment. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m such a fuck up,” Sam can hear him muttering. He turns back to Sam, swallows heavily. “I don’t think you’re fine, Sam. I don’t think you’ve been fine for a while, now.”

Because Bucky’s his friend, Sam tries his best to keep the anger and frustration pushed down. “It doesn’t matter what you think,” Sam says, voice unsteady, “I’m fine.”

“Look, I know I should have said this a long time ago, but,” Bucky shakes his head, “you need help, Sam. Honest-to-God, professional help.”

Sam bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, fidgets with the beer in his hands. “I know.”

“Thank God,” Bucky sighs in relief. “Okay, so we need to go the VA at some point and get you a therapist—”

“But I don’t want help.”

“What?” Bucky looks increasingly confused.

“I said I don’t want help.”

“Yeah, I know what you said,” Bucky snaps. “I just… why not? You need to get better, Sam. You need to move on.”

“I don’t want to move on!” yells Sam. He knows he’s being too loud, but he can’t hold it in. He stares past Bucky.

“You _have_ to.” Bucky waves his hands in the air. “If you don’t, you just end up… standing still, going nowhere. You just spend your life there. Nowhere.”

“He was my best friend,” Sam says, the words like a touchstone. “How am I supposed to move on from that?”

“I know, Sam. I know. And I’m sorry, but that’s life. People lose their best friends, their spouses, their children every day, and they move on. They live, they function.”

Sam crosses his arms. “I function,” he argues.

“No, you don’t. Not according to Steve you don’t.” Bucky grabs the unfilled job applications on Sam’s kitchen tables and holds them up. “Not according to these.” He shakes his head over and over. “Look, I only met Riley for all of two seconds, but I know for a fact that he would not want to see you like this.”

It’s true, very true, but it only serves to make Sam more angry. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m getting lectured on this by _you_ , since you’re just so great at mental health.”

Bucky just stares at Sam with a deep frown and disappointed eyes. “I know I’m not great with it, okay? That’s the point. That’s why I know you need to change something.” He runs a hand through his hair and groans loudly, “Christ, I can’t believe I have to be the fucking mature one in this situation.”

“Then don’t be,” Sam snaps. “You can leave whenever you want.”

“You know what? Fine.”

Sam watches as Bucky storms out, coldly satisfied.

* * *

Sam sits on his back porch, even though he can see his breath. It’s chilly and dark outside, no moon tonight. He leaves his beer on the ground, having lost his appetite for it. Dead leaves litter his backyard; he’d never gotten around to raking it, he realizes. There are a lot of things he never got around to.

A small black shape flaps its way onto the armrest of Sam’s chair. “Hi, Sam!” it chirps.

“Pip?”

“Stars look real nice tonight, don’t they?” Pip asks, looking to the sky. “They’re easier to see when the moon's not out, y’know.”

“Mmph,” responds Sam, still in a dark mood.

“Look, those ones are in the shape of a bird.”

“That’s the Big Dipper,” Sam says humorlessly.

Pip shrugs. “You say potato, I say tomato.”

Against his will, Sam smiles. “Why’re you here so late, Pip?” he asks, with no bitterness in his voice this time; it’s hard to be mad at a sparrow.

“Oh, I just came to say goodbye.”

Sam sits forward at once. “What? Where are you going? Are you…” Sam realizes he has absolutely no idea about the lifespan of sparrows, and he lowers his voice, “… dying?”

Pip gives Sam a long look. “No,” he says slowly. “Look around you, Sam. It’s winter now. Brr!” He ruffles his feathers. “I’m going south for a few months.”

“Oh,” says Sam, simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Pip says. He tilts his head at Sam, suddenly worried. “You’re gonna be fine while I’m gone, right?”

Sam shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be…” It’s at this moment that Sam really takes stock of his life. Let’s see, he’s hugely depressed, he’s gotten in a giant fight with his closest friend, he’s ruined his first date with the guy he’s been after for forever, and he’s about to say goodbye to his bird friend for the next few months. Shit. “Pip, before you go, can I ask you a question?” Sam says instead.

“Shoot.”

“Back when we first met, in the park, why did you start talking to me? Why me?”

Pip blinks. “You wanna know the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Pip says, unconcerned. “Well, you know, I was flying through the park, minding my own business, when I saw you sitting on the bench.” He gives Sam a small smile through his beak. “And you just looked really sad. Like you were carrying a lot of … hm, what’s that word that’s like sadness but even sadder? The feeling that’s like… your heart lost its wings?”

The word comes to Sam easy. “Sorrow?”

“Yep, that’s the one,” Pip says, pointing his wing at Sam. “Sorrow. And when I saw you that day in the park, I saw a lot of sorrow, too. A lot. Way more than normal. And I decided that you could probably use a friend.”

Sam eyes start to prick with tears, as he thinks about the kindness of birds, of family, of friends, of strangers met in parks. He thinks about all the people who care about him, who want him to get better. And he feels loved.

“Speaking of which,” Pip continues, “I am actually seeing a lot of sorrow in this area, right now, and I don’t really like that.” He looks at Sam. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam admits.

The little bird looks pained. “Well… are you going to be?”

There comes a moment in every soldier’s life when they find out exactly what they’re made of. Most of the time, it’s on the battlefield, dodging bullets and watching other people get blown to bits. Sometimes it’s back in basic, when they have to push their bodies to new and unforeseen heights. But Sam thinks his moment might be right now, four months after getting home, about to cry, talking to a bird and deciding whether or not he should get help. And, as he sits there, out in the cold on his back porch, he comes to realize that what he’s made out of is a whole lot of nerve and a little bit of steel, too.

“Yes, I am,” Sam says, and he means it. “I just have to make a call first.” He dials his phone as Pip looks on. “Bucky, it’s me. Will you please go to the VA with me tomorrow?”

* * *

The next morning, Bucky pulls his car up to Sam’s house and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says miserably to Sam through the open window. “Sam, I’m real sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sam replies. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“No, no, you were the one in trouble.” Bucky shakes his head. “I should have been better, I shouldn’t have left. God, I really shouldn’t have left. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Sam assures Bucky. He woken up this morning on the right side of the bed. He’d woken up knowing that today was a day for something to change. He hadn’t had any anger left.

Bucky lets Sam hold his hand while they fill out paperwork at the VA, until Bucky decides Sam is squeezing way too hard and makes him switch to the prosthetic arm, instead. After a short wait, he’s taken to the therapist’s office and seated in a comfy leather sofa.

A woman walks into the room, wearing round glasses and a purple sweater. She sits down across from Sam.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Camden,” she says, “but please call me Amanda.” She smiles at him, warm and gentle. “I’m glad you’re here, Sam.”

Sam lets out a shaky breath. “Me too.”

* * *

Life ambles on, as it does.

For Christmas, Sam knits Bucky a pair of mittens from scratch, a hobby his therapist has gotten him into. He gives Natasha a kitten that was rescued from the shelter, and she complains about it incessantly for the first twenty-four hours, then falls in love with it soon thereafter. He doesn’t kiss Steve under the mistletoe then, but he does kiss him at midnight on New Year’s Eve, tipsy on champagne, and it’s pretty much as great as he’d imagined.

Sam meets Steve’s friend Peggy, which means that Peggy meets Sam’s friend Natasha, which is a pretty bad idea, Sam realizes in hindsight because now, every time they hang out, Peggy and Natasha just go into a corner and whisper and laugh at all the guys.

For Valentine’s day, Sam’s pretty sure Bucky and Natasha got drunkenly married in Las Vegas, but the only proof is a very, very blurry snapchat sent to Sam at three in the morning, and neither Bucky nor Natasha are saying a word. Meanwhile, Sam and Steve settle for a nice, quiet dinner at a Japanese restaurant, followed by a concert in the city, which does not end with Sam having a panic attack and running away this time.

All in all, it’s a pretty good winter, Sam would say.

* * *

“Do you remember when we first met?” Steve says, on their sixth date. They’re at some cheap Italian place near Sam’s where the candles are electric, and they’re demolishing the free bowl of breadsticks together.

“Do I ever,” Sam chuckles.

Steve gets a dreamy look in his eye. “I remember hearing your voice first. It was so reassuring and kind. And then I opened my eyes and saw you, and you had a great smile, and your face was blocking the sun, so there was a kind of golden halo around your head. And for the first time in my life, I thought, y’know, ‘This is fate.’”

“I can’t decide if that was the most romantic or the most sappy thing I’ve ever heard,” Sam says, and Steve laughs. “You know that was bird shit in your eye, right?”

Steve shrugs, a huge grin on his face. “Still fate.”

 _No_ , thinks Sam. He remembers Pip, who’d given him nothing but pure friendship. _That was love._

* * *

Midway through March, the temperature hits sixty, the clouds part for the sun, and Sam goes out for a jog. He takes it easy, breathes in the moist spring air. He’s enjoying himself.

“Help! Someone, help me! Please!” someone wails, which is then quickly followed by a scream of anguish. “Help!”

Sam follows the cries off the jogging path, a little ways into the woods. When he bends down, he finds a tiny baby sparrow, struggling in the tall grass. “Hi, there,” he says gently.

The sparrow looks at Sam with big, fearful eyes and curls in on itself. “Hi,” it squeaks.

“What do you need help with, buddy?”

“I tried to go flying by myself, and I fell,” the sparrow wails, and if Sam’s not mistaken, it looks like it’s starting to tear up? Can birds do that? Cry? “Now I can’t get back to my nest.”

“Well, that’s not such a big problem,” Sam says warmly. He offers out his cupped hand. “Here, climb aboard the S.S. Wilson, and I’ll have you back in your nest in no time.”

“I can’t go back,” the sparrow sobs. “I’m an embarrassment. I couldn’t even make it a minute into the air.”

“You failed, so what?” Sam gives the bird a small smile. “We all do. No way to avoid it. But you’re gonna fly one day, I know that for a fact.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” says the sparrow, calming down. “Okay.” It ruffles its feathers and waddles over onto Sam’s hand.

Sam stands up and looks around. “So, where to?”

“That way. Wait—no, that way. Wait—”

Sam wanders around with the little sparrow for twenty minutes, following its instructions with only half of his brain. The other half of his brain is thinking that maybe birds can cry but not many of them can talk. He’s only really talked to one other bird in his life, so maybe this means something, maybe it doesn’t.

Eventually, the sparrow recognizes something. A bench with an old, gnarled tree to its back.

“Up there!” it says.

Sam spots a nest a couple feet up. He climbs onto the back of the bench, so that his elbows can rest on the branch, and as he places the sparrow back into the nest, he sees—

“Oh, hi, Sam!” Pip chirps.

“Hi, Pip.” Sam readjusts his position to get more comfortable. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Sam.”

Sam stares at the three little baby birds in the nest. The one Sam had just returned is stomping around, agitated, but the other two are dozing peacefully.

“Are these yours?” Sam asks.

“Yep! This is Chip, Dip, and Salsa.”

“Great names,” Sam says, hiding a smile. “So you… laid the eggs, did you?”

“I did,” Pip says proudly.

“Funny,” Sam scratches the back of his head, “this whole time, I thought you were a boy bird.”

“Pfft.” Pip ruffles her feathers in an indignant manner. “Typical human.”

“Damn, they’re cute,” Sam says, mesmerized by Pip’s progeny.

“They sure are,” Pip agrees. She looks at Sam. “Do you want one?”

Sam’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What? Do I… want one… of your kids?”

“They’re all getting ready to leave the nest anyway, and Chip, here, doesn’t like the outdoors very much. I think he has a grass allergy.”

As if on cue, the dozing sparrow makes a sound that could almost be classified as a sneeze.

“Do you want him? No cages of, course. A little birdhouse inside, and another one outside if you’re feeling generous. Leave the window open so he can come and go as he pleases.”

“So, you’re not really giving me a pet, more like a roommate.”

Pip shrugs. “Yep.”

Sam’s heart leaps in excitement at the though of having a little bird roommate, another Pip to talk to whenever and about whatever. “Well, only if he wants to.”

Pip shakes Chip’s head with her claw. “Chip. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.”

Sparrows, a horrible species. Such deep sleepers, yet they wake up the human species every day at the asscrack of dawn with their “singing.” Chip slowly blinks awake.

“Chip, say hello to our friend Sam.”

“Hi mister Sam,” Chip says dutifully.

“Do you want to go live with mister Sam in his house that has a roof and air conditioning?”

Chip appears to think deeply about the proposition. He scratches his face with his wing. “I dunno,” he says eventually. “Do he got Fritos?”

“Um,” says Sam, raising his eyebrows, “I’m pretty sure I do. If I don’t, I can just run down to the store and buy some—”

“Okay!” Chip says. “I’ll come live with you, mister Sam.”

Sam watches for a few minutes as the family says their goodbyes. Eventually, Chip walks toward the end of the branch and says, “Bye Dip. Bye Salsa. Bye Mama. I love you.”

The tiny bird, a miniature clone of his mother, hops his way into Sam’s cupped palms and ruffles his feathers. His rapid heartbeat thrums through Sam’s fingers. And as Sam stands there, this little ball of concentrated life in his hands, the bright March sun warming his back, he feels part of the sorrow surrounding his heart curl up and float away.

He grins.

When Sam walks into his house with a baby bird in his hands, Steve looks up from the couch, horrified.

“Sam!” he exclaims. “You have to put that back!”

“No, it’s okay, um,” Sam pauses, unsure how to explain. _His mother can talk to me and she gave him to me, I guess, speaking of which, she’s actually the one who got me to talk to you in the first place by shitting in your eye_ —

“Hi mister!” Chip says, hopping onto the back of the couch, over to Steve.

Steve freezes, then looks at Sam. “Um, did that bird just talk?”

Steve can fucking hear him, too, and Sam’s got no idea what that means. He feels something light bubbling up inside him, and he laughs out loud, full and unrestrained.

“Seriously, Sam,” Steve insists. “That bird spoke!”

Sam can only shrug helplessly. “His name is Chip,” he tells Steve.

“Hi mister,” Chip says again. “I hear you have Fritos around these parts.”

Steve looks incredibly weirded out, yet slightly bemused. He asks, “ So you brought home a talking bird named Chip who wants Fritos?”

“Yes,” Sam says without shame. “Yes, I did. I did that. This is my life.” Sam smiles. _And I like it,_ he adds silently.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: story title is from Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett  
> lyrics from the beginning are from Sorrow by The National  
> my [tumblr](http://coldtea.tumblr.com//)


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